Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him,
         “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.”
         He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent,
         the stones would shout out.”
                           —Luke 22.39-40

The stones they didn’t throw sing “Mercy!”
The five smooth stones chant, “Trust.”
Stones from the well where the woman met him
sing of the deep living waters.
Stepping stones and stumbling blocks murmur, “Grace.”
Jacob’s pillow, dream stone, offers its luminous silence.
Tablets of stone shout “Attend.”
The stone the builders rejected speaks of One Who Cares.
The stone that never became bread says, “What is.”
The stone that was rolled away says nothing
but rolls away from every grave
praising and praising and praising.

   —April 11, 2019

I will wave palm branches today.
Yes, I know they will be burned tomorrow;
I know my praise will turn to betrayal.
My hope will vanish into terror.
I know my passion for justice will be swallowed
by my lust for safety.
I know.
But I dare to trust my fickleness will be redeemed,
and is already.
I dare to believe now because I can,
even if later I will recant.
I dare to call for justice
though I myself will delay it.
I dare to have joy, even before the disaster,
because I know I will have joy again.
God has already blessed my brokenness,
transformed my evil, conquered my death.
This is my faith: that in the face of my sin
I rejoice.
In the face of evil I have hope,
in the face of failure I am confident,
in the face of death I live life.
How revolutionary, to rejoice in the face of despair!
Mortal, flawed, inadequate and doomed,
I wave my palm for the Beloved.
And the Beloved smiles.
Hosanna in the highest.

   —April 10, 2019

         “Go into the village ahead of you,
         and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt
         that has never been ridden.
         Untie it and bring it here.
         If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’
         just say this, ‘The Beloved needs it.’”
                  —Luke 19.30-31

My dear one,
your heart, your time,
your prayer, your imagination,
your faith and your doubt—
I need it.
Your thoughts, your voice,
the way you treat strangers,
I need it.
I need your presence
where there is hurt.
I need your risk in loving those
who are hard to love,
your vulnerability in caring for what is heartbreaking,
your hope in the dawn long before dawn.
I need you to convey me into the city,
to bear me into people’s hearts.
You, donkey-plain,
ordinary and waiting,
you are what I need.
Listen:
I have sent my servants
to untie you.

   —April 9, 2019

There are millions
of microbes living in you,
living beings you can’t see.
I wonder how many other
creatures of God as well,
how many spirits,
and how many gifts,
how many living prayers,
how many songs?

I bet they know to do things
we can’t imagine,
have powers we don’t have without them,
beautify us in ways we’ll never see.
Alone we would be lone indeed,
but together what courage we have!

I bet each of us with our billions
can be amazing.

Let’s astonish the world
with our dancing.

   —April 8, 2019

Leave the noise of the traffic of ideas.
Ignore fear’s nicknames for you.
Desert them.
Find an empty place.

Naked trees bear witness without speaking.
Silence falls
among sparse grasses like light.
The sea breathes in and out.
A single bird descends overhead.
Only God can say your name.

This deserted place won’t tell you who you are.
Listen to it.

___________________
Weather Report

Silence,
deepening throughout the day,
as the world sinks into the mystery
that spoke it.
Chance of light, with partial darkness,
both holy.

   —April 5, 2018

 The poor you always have with you;
         you do not always have me
                           —John 12.8

         I was hungry, and you fed me.
                           —Matthew 25.35

Beloved,
where will I meet you today?
Give me faith to go beyond my pity
for some imagined “poor;”
for now, in this moment, I have you,
not in some heavenly dream
but in this world, before me,
hurting, humble, disguised as one of me.
Give me the urgency of the moment,
faith in impending completion,
passion to feed you in your hunger,
to accompany you in your pain,
to anoint your wounded feet, now
here in this place,
before it is too late for you
and for me,
now, not in another life time.
Beloved, where will I meet you in pain today?
I am ready.

—April 4, 2019

 

         Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard,
         anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair.
                           —John 12.3

God does not promise to save you from suffering,
or to remove you from this life and its jagged edges.
God shares your space in it, offers blessing in it,
anointing your nights as well as days.
The cross is no scheme to get you off a hook somewhere;
it’s the Beloved, with you in your pain.

Let the Beloved pour herself out on your troubles,
let her pour out a jar of tears for you,
wipe your aching feet with her hair.
Let the whole house of you be filled
with the fragrance of God’s blessing.
Others don’t feel your pain but she does,
they will flee but she will be with you.

Lay before her your sorrows and your rage.
Feel her hands upon you, her hair, her heart.
You are in the holy of holies.
The world’s derision fades away outside the gate.
She looks at you with love
that will stay with you forever.

  —April 3, 2019

         “She bought it so that she might keep it
         for the day of my burial.”
                  —John 12.7

His Ash Wednesday.
At the home of one who has been anointed by death
the others carouse oblivious but
a woman of sorrows, and acquainted with grief
surrenders what she has clung to,
anoints with her treasure
—what breaking this outpouring asked—
blesses with her body
feet soon to be pierced.
The house is filled with the fragrance
of death, the dark coils that face us
toward completion.
Dust to dust.
Death is not our end but our guide.
“Now are the days you have,
this is the moment to love.”
He speaks to himself.

Buried now with love,
he will live these days even more truly.
Even the last is the first of the rest.
Having repented, repointed
toward love most giving
he too is ready to wash feet,
to pour out his body,
to face death with love.
He rises from the table, risen.

   —April 1, 2019

The “real world” is a house of illusion
built by a trickster with no jollity in mind.

So much you think is real,
but is only for the devil’s merriment.

To truly see you have to know your are blinded
and see what cannot be seen.

True wisdom is courage to look foolish.
Don’t fall for what your fear takes so seriously.

What you cling to, drop awkwardly.
What you have been instructed, forget.

Death is a practical joke.
Stand outside it, and see.

First you die, then you live.
Don’t let the ashes fool you.

   —April 1, 2019

Quiet One
I am here
deep in the mystery of You
The sometimes emptiness I have felt
weary, fruitless
the silence
the absence
that was You
releasing me from old ways
old assurances
Unveiling me
Inviting me deeper
into the mystery of You

Running out of thoughts
running free
Falling out of knowing
out of all understanding
into being

Presence of the unnoticeable

Mystery
vague as fog
warm us sun

Womb

I am
Here

—March 29, 2019